A Visit From a Doctor
by Santai
Summary: Since Watson's departure, Holmes has been sinking deep into a hole. Even Mrs. Hudson is concerned. Maybe all it takes is a visit by his dear doctor... one-shot, Bromance


**This is my first attempt at any fanfiction!! I just love this film soo much!! And I love these two just as much!! Reviews would be greatly appreciated. Please no flames...pretty please... Thankies!! Loves!! (I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any way shape or form)**

Sherlock Holmes walked slowly down the corridor, his gun out. It was dark, the only light coming from the candle he was carrying, bouncing off the bare stone of the walls and floor. Up ahead was the door that he was looking for. Taking a deep breath, he paused for a moment trying to concentrate on what he was about to do. It was an idiotic method and he knew it but everything had taken on a slightly surreal feel over the past month. Since _he _had moved out. He blinked at the floor, suddenly realising his gun was hanging limply from his fingers and he was leaning against the wall. He shook his head and looked up, pushing everything to the back of his mind he pressed forward to the door.

Dropping to one knee, he lowered the candlestick to the floor and flicked his coat back to find his leather pouch and unrolled it. Even as he silently studied the keyhole he was just waiting for Watson to appear from behind and join him. He shook his head; thoughts like that were distracting. Tucking his gun in his jacket he pulled the appropriate lock picks from the pouch and lifted them to the keyhole.

A creak echoed down the corridor as the keyhole swung away from Holmes' hands. He frowned for a second then tilted his head up to find three thick set men standing over him. He had just enough time to raise an eyebrow before the first blow landed.

"No, Doctor," Mrs Hudson sighed as she stood in the door of 221b Baker Street, "He's not here."

Watson frowned, "Do you know where I might find him?" he asked concerned.

"I'm afraid I don't know, he doesn't talk very much anymore," she replied, "He's been gone a since yesterday morning."

Watson sighed inwardly, _Please say he's not done anything stupid,_ "Could you please let him know that I called?" he asked sadly then replaced his hat and turned away.

"Wait, Doctor," Mrs Hudson said quickly, "I'm worried about him. He's out almost all of the time and when he is here, all he does is pluck his damned violin. And when do I see him, he's not exactly in the best physical condition. He refuses to see a doctor, no matter how much I tell him to."

Watson swallowed guiltily before turning and giving a small smile, "I didn't know you cared that much Mrs. Hudson. Holmes is just stubborn, he will be fine."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, still unconvinced, "If you say so."

"I'll call back later," Watson said as he turned, the false smile dropping away to leave all the worries he had doubled. _Oh, Sherlock, what are you thinking?_

Holmes staggered along the road, clutching his side and ignoring the occasional look thrown his way. He had what he wanted sat in his pocket. It was nothing more than a petty necklace that had been stolen; something that would usually have taken him no more than an hour had taken him an half a day of searching. Following which he had walked right into an ambush; it seemed his once great mind was beginning to fail him. But it probably didn't help that he was spending almost all his time in the boxing ring. His rooms were too full of memories for him to stay there for too long. The corner of his mouth twitched as he stumbled again and stuck a hand out to lean on the iron fencing. The fight he had had wouldn't normally have incapacitated him so, but it was building on the long list of untreated injuries he had sustained. Said list was starting to affect him.

With a small grunt of pain he lifted his head. The gateway to his rooms was just a few metres down the road. He could collapse on his sofa with his bottle and sleep it off. _You can't sleep off broken ribs, even if you are drunk, _Watson's voice muttered angrily in his head. A now rare, if sad, smile tugged at his mouth as he used the railing as a leaning post he headed for his empty apartment. His smile died.

The front door seemed a lot heavier than it used to be as Holmes pushed it open. He blinked twice as though surprised that the door moved forward with his hand, then proceeded to fall forwards onto the tiles. Pain exploded in his head as his cheek cracked on the floor. It did nothing to help his concussion. Black spots hovered in the corners of his eyes trying to take over. He screwed his eyes shut then dragged them open trying to get rid of the dots that were beginning to annoy him, but they sat defiantly in place. After a while of blinking repeatedly, he groaned into the floor and started trying to push himself to his feet before he fell unconscious. Blood from the cut over his eyebrow ran down his face from his forehead and landed in droplets on the white floor. He rested for a moment on his hands and knees before swiping at the stair's banister with one hand to grab the first railing. It took at least two attempts before hand met wood and he pulled himself up.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs Hudson called as she approached from another room.

Holmes sighed as he leant heavily against the banister, barely turning his head in her direction to look at her out of the corner of his eye silently, his features set in an expression of indifference.

"Mr. Holmes," she repeated quietly, taking in all of his fresh injuries, blood coating his face and matting his hair, yet another set of clothes torn and ruined. There was a long gash across his forehead that dribbled blood between his eyes to meet with that running from his nose. A red mark had appeared where he had struck the floor which would inevitably add more bruising to his black eye. Through his ripped jacket she could see yet another deep cut across his side. Of course, there would be other injuries that he had managed to hide from view. She took a moment before continuing, "The good doctor visited earlier."

Holmes turned his head a little, a glint his eyes, "Watson?"

She nodded quickly, hoping to draw more of a reaction.

He paused for a moment, his dark eyes searching the stairs as he spoke, "He was well?"

"Yes, he was," she replied, taking a small step closer, "He's worried about you."

Holmes couldn't help but smirk as he looked up the stairs, "Is he?" he mused to himself.

"He said he would be returning this afternoon," Mrs. Hudson continued, almost desperate to build on the hints of the old Holmes that seemed to be returning.

Holmes was silent, staring as though studying something intriguing through the window at the top of the stairs.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, cautiously.

He remained still and silent until Mrs. Hudson had nodded her head slightly hurried away, accepting she had gained all she would. Once she was out of sight, Holmes leaned as far as his bruised back would allow, making sure she was gone before he limped up the stairs, using the banister to move as quickly as he could.

Once inside his own room, he leant his back against the closed door and breathing heavily from the small exertion of climbing the stairs. His ribs hurt with every breath. Ignoring it as he always did, Holmes searched his room with his eyes. It was in a far worse condition than it looked, but that was one of the reasons he kept the curtains closed. It wasn't long before he spotted what he was looking for: Watson's rugby ball lay on the floor in front of the empty fireplace where he had left it. The black dots made their presence obvious as Holmes pushed away from the door, managing to stumble to his armchair without falling. He eyed the ball as though it was about to run. Taking a deep, painful breath he moved around the sofa, his eyes still fixed on his target. It didn't matter if he passed out in the process, Watson would not see that he still had his rugby ball.

Watson stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the curtained window of the second floor and tightened his grip on his leather bag. _I'm going to have to change that, old boy_, he thought as he climbed the stairs, his cane clicking on the stone. A strange feeling ran through him as he knocked on the door for the second time. Before that day, he had never knocked on that wood, not even the first day he set foot inside. He had just followed Holmes as he walked excitedly through the door and up the stairs inside.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Hudson opened the door and sighed relieved when she noticed his bag in his hand.

"Has he returned?" Watson asked, still staring up at the window, searching for any signs of life.

Mrs. Hudson nodded as she moved aside and beckoned him inside, "He returned not half an hour ago. He's in a bad way, doctor. He collapsed as soon as he opened the door."

Watson frowned up the stairs and shuffled where he stood, resisting the urge to sprint up to his room and find him. The sound of the door clicking shut made him turn and look to Mrs. Hudson.

"I'll see if I can get him to sit still long enough for me to take a look at him. Could you bring some tea in a couple of hours?" he asked, a pang of nostalgia flared in the bottom of his stomach as he said the final sentence.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, and walked away.

A crash resounded through the building.

Watson flinched then hurried up the stairs.

"Holmes?" he called as he pushed open the door slowly, wrinkling his nose at the stench of alcohol.

There was a grunt from somewhere in the dark.

"Your apparent quest for self-destruction hasn't been totally successful then?" Watson muttered as he set his bag on the floor, shut the door behind him and started picking his way across the cluttered floor. It was barely light enough for him to see where he was going, let alone find where Holmes was most likely lying.

There was a sound of movement behind him, followed by a muffled grumble and small clang as something fell to the floor.

Watson sighed to himself as he wrenched open the curtains. He paused for a moment, surprised not to get the usual cry of alarm from Holmes. With a frown, he turned to find his old friend. He was busy staggering around the piles of books, broken machinery and bloodied clothes and cloths, navigating through them as though they were furniture. His eyes were glancing around the floor, looking for something.

"Good god, Holmes," Watson said, staring at his friend, "What the hell have you done to yourself?"

Holmes glanced at him out of the top of his eyes, but carried on his search.

"Sit down, Holmes, before you fall unconscious," Watson commanded, approaching him.

Holmes frowned at the floor then shook his head, "I'm afraid I can't stop, Watson," he said, then winced as he stumbled.

Watson rushed forward and caught him as he fell forwards, "You're not going anywhere," he said quietly to the back of Holmes' head.

Holmes closed his eyes and allowed himself a slight smile before wiping his expression, pushing Watson away and dropping to the floor with a bang.

"Stop acting like a scolded child and sit in that sofa!" Watson ordered, nudging Holmes' leg with his foot.

Holmes rolled himself over with some effort, gritting his teeth, "I don't have the time, I have a very important appointment that I must attend," he said, regarding Watson with that infuriating look of indifference.

"Don't make me knock you out. In the state you're in it wouldn't take more than a light tap to the back of your head," he laid his cane gently on Holmes' chest.

Holmes glanced down at the stick, then back up to Watson's face with a raised eyebrow, "I'm fine, Watson, I really don't understand your concern."

Watson rolled his grey eyes then tapped Holmes' bleeding side.

Holmes' eyes went wide and his features twitched in masked pain. Watson tilted his head and gave a knowing smile as he tapped his side again. It didn't take long before Holmes groaned and curled into a ball, clutching his side.

Watson's smile grew as he leant casually on his cane, "Now, are you going to sit in the sofa or do I have to tap you again?"

Holmes groaned again, "Actually, Watson, I'd much prefer to just stay here."

Watson sighed as leant forward he extended a hand, "Come on, let me help you, Sherlock."

Holmes eyed his hand intently before scanning Watson's face, as though not quite trusting his intentions. Watson gave a small smile at the glance and waited patiently. After a moment, Holmes removed one bloodied hand from his side and gripped Watson's, using it to get himself to his feet. Watson's smile spread as he helped Holmes up, forcing his arm around his shoulders to give him support. Holmes winced as he limped to the sofa and sat with Watson's help.

"Ah, careful," Holmes grumbled as Watson stood upright again, leaving him leaning against the back of the chair with one hand still clamped to his side.

Watson just rolled his eyes in response as he turned and picked up his bag from beside the door. Neither spoke as he lifted it onto the arm of the sofa and began searching through it while Holmes watched him, even if he did try to hide it.

It was Watson who finally broke the silence, "What are you looking at Holmes?" he asked without looking up.

He blinked quickly, as though he hadn't noticed he was doing it, "I was just wondering where your lovely fiancé is," he replied, simply.

Watson found the bottle and cotton wool he was looking for and pulled them out as he answered, "She's staying with her brother in the country for a while."

"I see," Holmes drifted into silence again, staring out through the now open curtains.

"Why do you ask?" Watson asked as he stepped in front of Holmes as he uncorked the bottle. He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

Holmes looked up at him, his lips curling into the knowing smirk that annoyed Watson more than anything, "It was merely a question, John."

"You're infuriating," he muttered as he cupped Holmes' chin in one hand and tilted his head back to study the cut.

Holmes let his smile grow, "I do tr-," he cut himself off with a hiss as Watson dabbed his forehead with a liquid soaked cotton bud.

"That's not too bad," he decided after a moment of prolonged wiping.

Holmes glared at him, "I'm not sure that was entirely necessary."

Watson simply hmm'ed as he twisted Holmes' head to one side and peered at the swelling around his eye, "What have you been doing to yourself?"

"Due to the fact I now have to the pay rent single-handedly I have been working a little more than usual."

"Working?" Watson scoffed, "It looks to me that you've been spending too much time in the boxing ring."

Holmes pursed his lips, "Quite the contrary, I can't afford to make your bet as often as you used to."

Watson frowned, "My bet? What do you mean?"

"Your winnings are in the top right-hand drawer of my desk," he waved a hand in its direction.

Watson stood upright suddenly, "Are you still placing those bets in my place?" he asked angrily.

"Well, you haven't been there," he replied simply, "And regarding my injuries, they are merely the result of my trust, or lack thereof, of the other half-washed oafs that call themselves doctors. Although, that may have led to an increase in injuries sustained during work," the last sentence was more of a muttered revelation to himself as he peered out of the window.

Watson ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, "You're a fool! Why didn't you send for me? I would've been here in a moment had you called."

Having regained complete control of his head, Holmes shook it, and tried to ignore the wave of dizziness that followed, with a smile, "I wouldn't have done that to you, old boy," he replied, his fingers exploring the bruising around his eye, "I wouldn't drag you away from evenings in with your future wife."

Watson regarded him, a look of guilt and sadness in his eyes, "Don't be so ridiculous Holmes. I would have given up all my time with Mary so I that didn't have to see you like this," he replied quietly.

Holmes' smile faltered.

Watson held his gaze for a moment then returned to his bag.

Holmes stared at the space where he had been stood, slightly wide eyed, "Watson, I think I'm going to pass out."

Watson snorted as he rummaged violently through his bag, "You flatter me Holmes," he replied sarcastically.

Holmes chuckled slightly, "I should hope so," he murmured then fell sideways into the arm of the chair.

Watson looked up from his bag, frowning, then quickly left it and crouched in front of the sofa.

"Holmes?" he said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking him lightly, "Sherlock?"

There was no response. He dropped his hand and rubbed his face.

"You really are insufferable," Watson whispered with a small smile and stood, "At least, you won't be complaining for a few hours."

The sofa felt comfier than it had in a while as Holmes regained consciousness. His body ached steadily, but that was something he was used to. It was the lack of shirt and feeling of a large amount of bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and left ankle that was unusual. He frowned then cracked open an eye only to screw it shut as sunlight streamed through the curtains. He groaned and lifted an arm across his face, wincing as he caught his bruised cheekbone.

"Watson," he called, "Do shut the curtains, that light is really not helping my headache."

It was all quiet.

He frowned again and propped himself up on his elbows and searched the room. It was far tidier than he remembered it. Most of the piles on the floor were gone. Broken machinery had been cleared up and some that was salvageable was sat on his now vaguely clear desk. A fire was burning in the hearth and a teapot and single cup was sat on the low table beside the sofa. But the only thing Holmes really noticed was that he was alone. Twisting painfully, he looked at his desk. There was a single drawer pulled open. Watson had left him to recover on his own. Wincing, he sat upright and stared disdainfully at the teapot on the table.

After a long pause, he put his hands on his thighs and prepared to stand.

The door opened behind him and he froze.

"Ah, you're awake," Watson said cheerfully, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot.

Holmes turned in his seat, "I thought you had gone."

"I had for a moment," he lowered the bag he was carrying onto a separate chair, "I'm sorry I wasn't back before you woke."

Holmes tilted his head at the chair, "What about your fiancé?"

He poured a cup of tea from the pot, "I've already told you. She is staying with her brother. The house feels awkward alone."

Holmes looked at out of the corner of his eye, "Do you know when the good lady is returning?"

Watson took a sip from the teacup, "She didn't say."

Holmes looked down at his hands, checking his nails, "Well, your room is still available. You could always...stay here. You know, if you want to."

Watson replaced the teacup onto the tray, smirking, "You weren't going to get a choice in the matter. You have already proved that you will inevitably kill yourself if I let you out of my sight for too long."

"Ah, so that's why you brought your clothes," Holmes noted, nodding his head slowly.

"Actually, those are for you," he said, gesturing, "As much as I'm furious with you for even placing those damn bets, the money has come in handy. Your tailor down the road has some unreasonable prices. The house is a little far for me to have travelled at the short notice."

Holmes glanced at him, "And when are you planning to travel?"

"As soon as I can make you agree not to move until I return," Watson replied, smiling, "So I could be waiting up to a month."

Holmes shot him a look, "I think you'll find, _mother hen_, that I can be most compliant when I wish to be."

Watson scoffed, "But that wish, Holmes, is not one that often crosses your mind," he paused for a moment, "There was a little of the money left over," he said as he put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a two pieces of paper, "I managed to acquire two tickets to the theatre."

Holmes grinned.

"There are a few conditions," Watson continued.

The grin drooped.

"You must not stand up, roll off, crawl from or move in any way from that sofa. You cannot drink alcohol at all."

Holmes opened his mouth to argue, but Watson cut him off.

"And you must not complain about anything until the show in exactly," he pulled out his pocket watch and smirked to himself, "Eighteen hours."

Holmes opened his mouth again. Watson raised his eyebrows expectantly, holding the tickets in one hand as he sat down in the free chair.

"Yes, Holmes," he said, an amused glint in his eye, "You were going to say something."

Holmes shut his mouth and leant back in the sofa and regarded Watson with narrowed eyes, "It was nothing important."

"I didn't think it would be," he chuckled.

Holmes glared at him, secretly glad of a number of things. One, he now had some clothes which weren't ripped or covered in blood and sweat. Two, his room was warm and tidy. Three, he would finally stop being pestered by 'Nanny' about seeing a doctor. And finally, it seemed as though Watson hadn't quite abandoned him after all.


End file.
